


Firsts and All the In-Betweens

by loveywife, Wessa5ever



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Ballet, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Original Character(s), Rugby, Teen Angst, Teen John, Teen Romance, Teen Sherlock, Teen Years, Teenage Drama, Teenagers, Teenlock, ballet!sherlock, balletlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6316738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveywife/pseuds/loveywife, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wessa5ever/pseuds/Wessa5ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically based off of the art by shootbadcabbies because its amazing </p><p>Sherlock's dance career is interrupted by the arrival of an enticing rugby player, and the dark secret he's keeping from him. </p><p>Chose not to use tags to keep the plot spoiler free, but be warned there are potential triggers</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As the dancers pranced across the stage, John kept his eyes open for one Sarah Sawyer. Since Harry got busted the last week for going to a party instead of the Library, their parents were now making John chaperone her everywhere. Not that John minded all that much. Harry went to the recital to gawk at her new crush, Clara, and John used the opportunity to gawk at his, Sarah. He kept his eyes open for the familiar head of dark hair,  and when he found it, he realized that his eyes were drawn to someone quite different. A male head of dark hair. An antisocial, arrogant head of hair. John tried to look away from the boy, but the way he moved was entrancing. His long, slim body moved gracefully in arcs to the center of the stage. The light was on him, and all the dancers surrounding him seemed insignificant, especially Sarah Sawyer.

In the hallways and in classes, Sherlock Holmes seemed like he didn't want to be noticed. He seemed like he wanted to be some place else. John thought that maybe center stage was where he wanted to be. He certainly looked like he belonged there. The spotlight caught his sleek black hair, making it look like the blue of the night sky, and his skin appeared translucent because of its paleness. His skin glistened with sweat and what appeared to be sparkles. He looked ethereal. His eyelids were closed and he seemed to be humming under his breath as he did his solo.  He was the most beautiful person John had ever seen. Then it was over and he floated to stage right.

John thought that Sherlock Holmes should've been alone on that stage, without all of the other people. As the boy disappeared behind some clumsy 10th year, John tore his eyes away, and stared to the back of the stage, not quite looking at anything. His eyes widened, and his mouth clamped shut. This wasn't the first time John had had these... thoughts, but these were certainly the strongest ones yet. John hadn't exactly come out to anyone yet, he didn't see the need to. His sexuality was his own business, and it wasn't something to judge a person on. He wasn't scared that his friends wouldn't like him anymore, but they would probably be dicks about it. So he chose to keep quiet, but keeping quiet isn't easy when you want to jump in the boy on stage's bones.  


Sherlock exited off stage, panting, and fell against one of the walls in the wings. A fellow dancer patted him on the back as he passed, congratulating  his particularly spectacular execution of a very difficult solo. Exhausted, he trudged his way into the dressing rooms to undress and get changed. He had his own room, as being the only boy in a ladies dressing room was deemed "improper", not that Sherlock had eyes for any of them any how. The room was more of the corner of a boy's restroom but Sherlock wasn't complaining. Removing his toe shoes carefully, he wiped down his feet, wincing at the blisters already formed and the cuts that had begun to bleed again. He meticulously wrapped the ribbons of his shoes and put them in their storage bag so they didn't get ruined. He stripped off his sweat drenched tights, rubbing his quivering and aching leg muscles. His thighs and calves would be very sore tomorrow. Tossing off his costume top, underwear following, he stepped into one of the showers this school venue provided. Sudsing his thick curls, he hummed a concerto under his breath, changing positions with his feet as the water dripped over him. His whole body was nearly clean by the time he heard the doorknob turning, and a boy waltzed in, whistling. He stopped and stared at the boy, who seemed not to hear him over the running water. Then he cleared his throat rather awkwardly, moving to back out of the bathroom.Sherlock yelled out in surprise, moving to cover himself as he turned. He blushed a furious deep red as he found the boy in front of him was John, the school's most popular rugby star.  
  
"Oh, Christ, I'm sorry, mate!" John stammered, cheeks burning pink. "I thought, I didn't know there were showers in here, I-"   
  
Sherlock shook his head, and John noticed that his blush spread to his whole body when he was embarrassed. "It's my fault, usually no one bothers me when I'm in here but I..." He stammered, tripping over his words. His braces gleamed silver in the light as he hurried to grab a towel and cover himself.   


"I should've locked the door..." Sherlock finished wrapping the towel around him, then looked back at John, who met his eyes and quickly turned his head. /He's blushing... but not because he's uncomfortable. He's embarrassed. Not because he walked in while I was showering, if so he would have excused himself, he wouldn't be so quiet. He was looking at me while I was putting on my towel./ Sherlock thought.

"So John..." The boy perked up, then flushed and averted his eyes again, first to Sherlock's chest then lower, then back to his face, then to the ceiling, then finally resting on the sinks behind Sherlock. "Did you watch the performance?"

"Huh?" John asked, mind a bit distracted by the bare boy before him. 

"The performance. Did you watch it?" 

"Oh, uh, yeah, yes I did. You were really good. Great, actually. You were the best dancer there." 

Sherlock chuckled, "Well, 13 years of lessons ought to have paid off. Is your girlfriend in the show?" 

John's blue eyes widened, before he slowly shook his head, "No, no, I... I don't have a girlfriend. I'm here with my sister. I had to chaperone her." 

"Really? I thought you were dating that Mary girl." 

John laughed lightly, "So you're not totally socially inept, you just pretend to not care about what's going on at school." 

Sherlock glowered at the ground, offended by the comment. "Oh, I don't care, I just observe what's happening in your petty lives. I don't absorb the information intentionally. " 

"You talk about yourself like you’re a machine!" John asked, then broke into laughter. Sherlock scowled at him. John was belittling him, not taking him seriously. This was the reason why Sherlock didn't talk to his classmates. They were all immature and incapable of understanding him, as were most adults. Sherlock was done with this conversation.

“If you don’t mind, I need to continue changing, and I can’t very well do that with you standing there.” Sherlock turned around and walked to the dresser.

“Oh.. OH! Yes... yes, I’m sorry, I’ll... leave! I’ll see you later Sherlock!” John ran out of the dressing room and slammed the door.   
Sherlock continued changing. He hung up his costume and carried it out with him after he had changed, throwing on a pair of tight jeans and a hoodie. He placed the costume on the return rack alongside all the girls’ hose and tutus. Then he made his way to the back of the theater, moving to the exit to wait for his brother to pick him up. Sherlock waited half an hour until he realized Mycroft had forgotten about him again. His sibling was on half term, having returned from his boarding school earlier that week. Probably went out with his friends again, Sherlock thought, miffed. He was used to being left behind by his brother. The back door swung open again, and Sherlock tried to look anywhere but at John.   
  
"Oh, erm...sorry. Harry took the car and left with Clara, so I thought I'd leave this way and walk home." John blurted out, feeling very awkward. It seemed he could not avoid the younger Holmes. Noticing Sherlock's downtrodden look, he frowned. "Do you… Do you have a ride?"   
  
Sherlock bit his lip, considering lying, then shook his head. "My brother forgot me...again."   
  
John frowned. What an arse, he didn't even come to see Sherlock perform. "Well, I'm walking home...but I know you live on my street."   
  
Sherlock's head shot up, curls bouncing in dripping clusters. "How do you know that?"   
  
John blushed. "We, uh, our mothers used to put us in that play group together...and I sorta just...recalled that your house is the one with the rose bushes out in the front garden." He realized this wasn't a normal thing to say and mentally kicked himself.   
  
Sherlock peered at him. "Oh, right...well, I'll walk with you then, I suppose." John nodded and hefted Sherlock's dance bag onto his shoulder. Sherlock tried to protest but his pleas fell on deaf ears. His ears warmed and he hunched further into his sweatshirt. He wasn't used to anyone being nice to him.   
  
They walked in silence at first, shoulders occasionally brushing, which made Sherlock's cheeks burn. He didn't know how to talk to people, since no one ever bothering to talk to him. "So, um...you have a rugby match this Thursday, don't you?" He started, trying to make conversation. John probably thought he was odd, or a stalker.   
  
But John visibly brightened. "Yea, yea, I do. It's not a play off or anything but coach really wants us to do well, and I hope I don't mess up like I did at practice on Saturday because I fell and almost twisted my ankle. I almost lost the ball during the scrum, and I'm my team's only hooker, so I can't let them down. " John explained, clearly very enthusiastic about the whole process. Then he noticed Sherlock's blank expression. "You don't have the faintest idea of what I mean, do you, Holmes?" John asked with a small, amused, laugh.   
  
"Not a clue." Sherlock answered, hoping John wasn't upset with him for pretending to be interested.   
  
"Well, you should come, to the match, I mean. You could see me play, maybe get to know rugby. I'm sure you'd catch on quick, you're brilliant, you are." John said in a rush, and then bit his tongue. _Where did any of that come from?_ he wondered, but then realized he didn't want to take it back.   
  
"Oh, I don't think so...I have... _things_...to do that night." Sherlock replied, and John's face fell. He felt terrible for lying, but he couldn't imagine the teasing he'd receive for attending. Sherlock Holmes, the loser, the freak, the geek, at a rugby match? Everyone would be there, and Sherlock knew no one wanted him there.

 

"That's a shame. You'd probably be bored anyway I guess. It’s fine, though.”

 

Sherlock looked away from John, still feeling bad for lying to the hopeful boy.

 

John smiled at him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Really, it's...fine."   
  
Sherlock froze, quickly trying to shrug out of his grip, becoming closed off and distant. John immediately removed his hand.   
  
"Sorry, I didn't think..." he tried, feeling foolish again. He kept treating Sherlock like a normal person, like a casual friend, when he so clearly was different from everyone else. John didn't mind his being different though. He found it charming, when not rude. Even so, it was better than everyone always telling him what he wanted to hear because he was popular. He and Sherlock stopped outside of a convenience store to buy crisps, since by now John had missed dinner at home. He asked Sherlock if he wanted anything, but the boy shook his head and declined the offer. John had shrugged, paid and followed him out of the shop. They sat on the curb, watching cars go by as John munched on his crisps. Sherlock didn't say anything, and when John was done he tossed the crumpled bag into a rubbish bin, and stretched.   
  
"Walking home isn't fun, why do you do it every day?" John asked, popping his neck.   
  
Sherlock furrowed his brow. "You know I walk home?" He asked dubiously, eyes narrowing as he stared at John.   
  
"Oh, um, yea..I see you walk by the north gate every day during practice." John explained, hoping Sherlock didn't find him weird now.   
  
Sherlock seemed to accept this with surprise, as though unused to people paying him any attention. "Oh. Alright." He mumbled softly.   
  
John's feet hurt. He looked over at the bike rack on the far side of the car park. "Hey, someone left their bike here." He commented, pointing at it.   
  
Sherlock gazed at him. "Maybe they meant to come back." He attempted.   
  
"Nah, it's nearly ten. No one wants it anyways, it's all tarnished and old." He said, jogging over to peer at it. The taller lad followed. "Locked." He added, once Sherlock had reached him.   
  
Sherlock crouched down next to him, taking the lock in hands. He bit his lip for a second, pondering probability, using what he knew. Within a few twists of his wrist, the lock popped open and he removed it, wheeling out the bike. "Simple combination lock." He explained to the stunned John. "112233. Some people really are thick." He said, grinning. "Hop on, I'm no good at steering, Mycroft always let go before I could learn to ride properly, lying git." Sherlock scoffed.   
  
John climbed onto the seat, sitting down and adjusting the handlebars. Sherlock climbed onto the back wheel, standing, and placed his arms on John's shoulders. Watson only hoped Sherlock didn't feel him shiver. He began to peddle, wind rushing through their hair as they wore no helmets. "I can't believe we just stole a bike!" he exclaimed, laughing. He peddled faster as they went down a small hill, dipping with the road. Balancing, he threw out his arms and let the breeze rush through his fingers, laughter being torn away by the gusts of wind.

 

When the boys reached the gate to Sherlock's home, Sherlock gracefully slid off the bike and walked away. John thought that Sherlock had forgotten about him when he suddenly stopped and turned around.   
  
"If you want... I suppose I'm available tomorrow for tutoring if you’ll accept help on your Chemistry exam." Sherlock had a feeling he probably would.

 

John froze where he was and turned back to look Sherlock in the eye. “What did you say?”

 

Sherlock looked away, biting his lip. “Um… Chemistry. You’re doing poorly.” He repeated.

 

John blinked at him for a moment, before laughing softly. “Wow, didn’t know it was common knowledge. Seems like I had better get my grade up if everyone knows about it.”

 

 

Sherlock wanted to tell him that most people wouldn’t have known that just by looking at the holes worried into his jacket, but instead offered, “No… I’m just the teacher’s aid, sometimes I grade the tests.” The look of relief on John’s confused face as worth the minor lie.  


John smiled and nodded, "That would be awesome. God knows I need help."  


Sherlock nodded curtly then looked away awkwardly. "I don't really get up until noon, so you can come over any time after then. I'll inform my mum that you'll be coming." Sherlock made to turn around, "If I were you, I would discard the bike before reaching home. Your parents will question you not only about the bike, but also about your sister and why you're not with her."  


"Right... Thanks, Sherlock." John said to the tall boy's retreating figure.   
  
After Sherlock was inside, John called Harry's phone many times. Eventually, she answered.   


"What do you want, John?" She snapped at him over the loud music and laughter in the background.  


"I'm supposed to be with you at all times. I can't go home until you're with me. Where are you?" John shot back, his annoyance for her beyond tolerable.  


His sister groaned, "Yeah, yeah alright. I'm at Clara's. I'll drive home and meet you  down the street from our house."  


The call ended abruptly and John peddled away.  Harry took at an hour to meet up with John, which was at least two hours past both of their curfews.  


"Wow, so nice of you to show up, Harry. Where was Clara's flat anyway? In America?" John shouted. He couldn't get grounded right before the end of term. He had play offs and parties and certain tutoring sessions to attend. Harry might've just cost him his social life.   


"God, John chill out. Mum and dad are probably asleep and won't even hear us come in. Get in." She said, rolling her eyes as she slid across the seat to open up the door for him.  


Luckily, Harry was right, and both of their parents were out like a bulb. John slept soundly and woke early for his  morning training. By the time he got back to his home, all of his family was up and bustling around. John grabbed his plate of eggs and sat down at the table, scarfing it down.  


"How was the recital last night, John?" His mother asked absently as she stirred the pan upon the stove.  


"Id waz goof," John said, his mouth full of food. He swallowed and cleared his throat, "It was good."  


"That's good. What have you got planned today?" She inquired cheerily as she crossed into the living room to grab the paper.  


John paused for a moment, wondering if he wanted the interrogation that would follow. "Actually, I'm going over to my friend's house for chemistry tutoring."  


"Really? Which friend?" His mom asked, happy to see her son trying to improve his grades.   


"Sherlock-" He began slowly before his sister cut him off with an indignant squawk.   


"As in Sherlock Holmes?" Harry interrupted, putting down her fork, which she’d been using to push food around on her plate, "That creep doesn't have any friends."  


"Harry!" Their mother chastised, then looked at John, concerned, "Is that true? He doesn't have any friends?"  


John looked away and nodded reluctantly. He could tell it made his mother sad to hear, and that she most likely would push him to interact with the boy more, which he had no issue with.   


"Well, I'm glad you're reaching out to him, I'm sure he's just... misunderstood. Not a ‘creep.’" She shot a look at Harry, who rolled her eyes and went back to not eating.

 

After he finished his food, John dressed quickly in an old jumper and jeans, tugging on trainers as he brushed his teeth and combed his hair. He grabbed his backpack, and pulled the bike he had now claimed out of the bushes a block down where he had hidden it. He got on and peddled to Sherlock's, stopping outside the gate and going into the home. He knocked on the door and a kindly woman answered it.   


"Hello, dear!" She said. "You must be John, Violet has been telling me all about Sherlock's new friend." She added cheerily, while another woman came to greet him.   


"Hello, John!" She said, pecking him on the cheek. "I'm Sherlock's mum, this is my good friend, Mrs. Hudson. You can call either of us if you need anything. Sherlock should be in his room upstairs, I woke him up an hour ago so he should be ready."   


John nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Holmes. I'll go right up." He said, feet pounding on the wooden stairs as he climbed up them swiftly. He found a door with a sign on it that read, "Mycroft stay out" in neat penmanship on white paper and figured it had to be Sherlock's. He knocked, and when there was no answered, entered the room.   


Sherlock was sprawled out all over the bed, limbs stretched out and hanging off the edges of the mattress. His body was tangled in the sheets, and John averted his eyes as he saw all Sherlock wore beneath them were a pair of navy blue pants.   


"Sherlock, wake up." He said, tossing a stray pillow at the boy. "It's, erm, it's John. Wake up." He could already feel his cheeks begin to redden. Why is it he always ran into this strange boy he just might, possibly, maybe fancy half clothed? Sherlock grumbled for a moment before capturing the pillow that John had thrown and encircling it in his arms. He rolled back over, face first into his pillow. John couldn't help but chuckle. John walked closer to Sherlock and knelt down before poking him gently on the shoulder.  


 

"Sherlock," he whispered to the sleeping boy, who snored in return. John got up, giving up on waking him, and turned to inspect the room he was in. It was cluttered, but in an organized way. All of the papers and books were neatly stacked, but there were so many of them that the large room looked tiny. On the large desk on the corner was what appeared to be a chemistry set, and not an amateur one. John walked over to it, and looked at the various tubes and liquids, picking up a bottle with a clear liquid in it and holding it up to his eye.  


"Hydrochloric acid," Sherlock’s voice said from behind his, startling John so much he almost dropped the bottle.   


"Holy shit, Sherlock. You scared me." John carefully put down the bottle and turned around.  


"I  can tell." Sherlock was off his bed, putting a shirt over his head, much to John's relief, and disappointment. John mentally waved goodbye to the dancer's perfect abs. Then his trousers were already pulled on over his bare legs. Bye bye, dancer's arse.    


"So are you ready to study?" John unzipped his rucksack and took out his chemistry book. Sherlock waved him off.  


"Give me a moment, I have a raging headache." Sherlock sat down on his bed and cradled his head in his hands, rubbing his temples.  


"Are you alright?" John asked, concerned.   


"Yes, perfectly alright. I didn't have the best sleep last night. Concert nerves." Sherlock brushed him off as he grabbed a bottle that seemed to be stationary by his bedside table, and shook two tablets into his hand. _Was this a common occurrence?_ John wondered, and bit back the urge to remind Sherlock the accepted dose was only one.   


Instead, John nodded understandingly, "I get like that after games. I can't stop thinking about what I could've done better or differently."   


Sherlock reached towards his bedside table and grabbed bottle of water, popping two pills into his mouth.  


"What was that?" He asked, just to make sure it really was just common painkillers.  


"Ibuprofen. Helps the headache go away. Anyway, where should we start with chemistry?" Sherlock asked him, setting the bottle aside and standing up.  


John chuckled nervously, "How about the first chapter."  


Sherlock rolled his blue eyes, "John, how can you expect to become a doctor if you don't understand the most basic of chemistry." Did he ever mention that to Sherlock? It’s not something he tells many people… But he supposes he must have if he knows.   


"It's not that I don't understand it. I just haven't read it yet. With rugby and student body and clubs, I haven't had time." The boy protested, throwing his hands up in the air in agitation. Sherlock understood that he wasn’t upset with him, but more with himself.  


Sherlock scowled at John, "You're telling me you haven't so much as read a sentence in this book the entire year?"  


"Yeah..." John admitted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.  


Sherlock merely nodded, passing no more judgment and clapped his hands together, picking up the text. "Well, we've got a lot of work to do. I can see why your grade would be low"

 

John’s brow furrowed at him. “Alright, genius, then how come yours aren’t that low?” He chided, tossing a pillow at him.

 

“Mind palace.” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, with a shrug. “It’s how I remember everything for my classes. I delete most of it afterwards anyhow. So, Chapter One…”

 

After they had studied as much as John could bear, he set his books aside. John tucked his things safely away from any forms of acid in his backpack, and leaned back in his chair, staring at Sherlock.   


"What now, Sherl?" He asked, the nickname just slipping out. He immediately bit his lip to shut himself up and fought the urge to clap a hand over his mouth.  


Sherlock's cheeks were tinged with pink but he hid it well. "I'll show you."

 

Sherlock took John by the hand and led him to the window. Sliding up the pane, he climbed out onto the sill, the autumn breeze stirring his inky mass of curls. Bare feet keeping steady, he leaned out over the two story drop onto his front lawn, and gravel pathway. His fingers brushed the first roof tile and he grabbed it, using his arm muscles to pull himself up onto the rooftop. John stared in horror as his legs disappeared, toes seeming to wink out of sight. Sherlock would fall, and hurt himself. He thought, shocked.   
  
"Come on, follow me!" came Sherlock's impatient cry. John hurried up to follow his suit, ungracefully scrabbling onto the gritty clay roofing, unlike Sherlock.   
  
"What are we doing up here?" John asked, looking out over the suburbs in awe. He could almost see a glimpse downtown London from here.   
  
"I like to come up here and think a lot. No one else seems to bother me, and my mind is clear enough to organize it." Sherlock put forth, words being snatched away by the chill. He shivered slightly.   
  
"Are you cold?" John inquired, noticing the way the slighter boy's shoulders were wracked with shudders. His arms sported goosebumps. Sherlock waved him off.   
  
"S'alright. I don't mind the cold." He replied, leaning back on his elbows, bare feet dangling precariously over the edge.   
  
John, who was thicker and therefore warmer, shrugged his hoodie over his head. "Well, I do. I'm not even cold. Coach makes us practice in nothing but uniform for hours in this kind of weather all the time." He tossed the jumper over at Sherlock, who took it suspiciously. He held the jacket, made of a thick black material, gingerly in his fingers, at arm’s length. The front had their school logo and the back had _WATSON #14_ printed on it in stark white letters. Bold letters. Anyone who saw this would think-   
  
"Put it on." John urged him as the wind started to pick up, and the clouds overhead clustered further together.   
  
Sherlock, at a loss for words for quite possibly the first time in his life, tugged it over his head. He had to admit, it was quite warm. "Thanks." He added softly under his breath. John nodded.   
  
"So...this mind palace thing, what is it?" John asked, his eyes shut against the breeze that coasted over their faces. Sherlock’s reply was slightly delayed as he found his eyes wandering unabashedly over the boy’s placid face, committing the details to memories without thinking.   
  
"Oh, it's merely a way to remember and catalogue information. You envision it in sort of a collection of rooms so you don't forget. It takes a lot of work but hopefully I can accomplish it." Sherlock explained.   
  
John's brow wrinkled in confusion. "How does it help you dance?"   
  
"It doesn't...not really." Sherlock answered, voice clearly puzzled.   
  
"But, isn't that what you wanna do? Continue dance?" John pushed. Sherlock was brilliant, he had to want to pursue dance.   
  
"I love it, but dancers only have so long a career. My brother has been training me for a long time to use my intelligence to my advantage, to solve puzzles of sorts. I like mystery novels, crime detective types the best, because I feel like they have the most meaning. There was a boy who died at academy once, before I got expelled and moved to our school and I tried to solve it, but I wasn't close enough. Maybe a mind palace could help."   
  
John opened his mouth to respond as thunder rumbled and rain began to pour down on them. "Shit!" He exclaimed. In seconds they were both soaked.   
  
"Off the roof! There could be lightning!" Sherlock advised, hurrying to make it back through his window. He dashed in, John following in quick pursuit. The edge of his rubber sole landed in a tiny puddle and he slid. Sherlock acted fast, hand darting out to grab his arm and pull him through to safety. The boys collapsed on the carpet, dripping water and panting.   
  
"Thanks." John gasped out after a moment. "It could have been me that was your next crime scene."   
  
Sherlock sat up, resting his arms on his knees. "Don't, that's not funny." He chided seriously, his eyes meeting John’s with a sort of protectiveness he wouldn’t have expected from a boy who was practically still a stranger to him.   
  
John cracked him a smile. "It's kinda funny." He said with a grin. Sherlock smiled back and in minutes the two were laughing. “Wait, alright… Expelled? What for?” John asked, still chuckling as he pushed his wet hair off of his forehead.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling a sour face. “I started a fire in the lab once, when I was alone using it for a personal experiment.” He replied, lifting on shoulder. “Technically, I didn’t have permission… But Mycroft wouldn’t let me use his advanced chemistry set, and at the time, Mum thought it too ‘dangerous’ to let me have one of my own. It was necessary, for science… But they still punished me. None of my professors had liked me that much, after all… In fact, no one at school really did except for Sebastian… But he turned out to be a creep. I think, honestly, that they were more than a bit glad to have me gone.” Sherlock finished, sounding a bit sad as he kicked his heels against the bedframe. Before John could say anything, Sherlock's mother poked her head through the door.   
  
"Yoo hoo? Boys, that doesn't sound like revising to me-why, what happened? You're all wet!" She exclaimed, eyes darting between the two of them. "Out of those clothes right now, I'll have them washed and dried within the hour, John." She took no protests, so the boys decided not to argue, quickly stripping down to their pants.   


They huddled under his cover, drenched and shivering, too embarrassed to speak. Mrs. Hudson popped in later and saw them.

 

"The state of you two!" She cried, and promptly pushed them each into a warm shower. By the time he was out, John's clothes were all settled, so he donned them and sat waiting for Sherlock on the edge of his bed. Sherlock had tossed his clothes into the hamper, so the sweatshirt remained forgotten.   
  
John was just beginning to wonder what was taking his friend so long when a nasally voice piped up, answering his unspoken query.   
  
"Sherlock always takes forever in the shower. He's so pretentious when it comes to appearances. He spends hours making his hair look right, and picking out the right clothing."   
  
John looked up to see an older boy with a thin mouth, gaunt face and long nose peering at him from his position leaning against the doorway. He looked about 23, and was wearing pressed slacks and a button up tucked into the waist, a suit jacket draped over one arm.   


"I'm guessing you're Mycroft?" John said, looking up.

  
"My brother's told you about me? All bad things, I presume." He replied cooly, his eyebrows raised. The man spun the point of his umbrella around on the floor.   
  
"No, not at all. He thinks you're brilliant. I haven't heard much though, we only started talking yesterday." John answered with a puzzled tone, shrugging and looking over the man’s shoulder for signs of his younger brother to rescue him from this conversation.   
  
Mycroft looked up at him and raised his eyebrow, appraising John. Then he scrunched up his face, and then his eyes widened as he nodded in understanding, but John had no idea what was to be understood.   
  
"So Sherlock is tutoring you? How is that going. He's very intelligent, but quite short of patience. That must be difficult for you." Mycroft started leisurely walking around Sherlock's room, every now and then poking at something with his umbrella. John resisted the urge to jump up and advise him to leave off messing about.   
  
"Um, no he's been great. Very helpful." John told him, twisting his hands together.

 

Mycroft suddenly ceased his fiddling and turned abruptly towards him, resting his weight upon the staff of his rainshield, which John suspected was most for show. “So, John… Be honest, what is the nature of relationship with my brother?”

 

John was taken aback for a moment. “I’m sorry?” He sputtered, not sure if he’d heard the man correctly.

 

Mycroft sighed, his eyes drifting up to the ceiling in irritation. “Please, spare me any feigned attempts to hide it… Why are you really here?” He asked, meeting his gaze pointedly.

 

“Do-do you think we’re… Together, or something?” John blurted out incredulously, feeling his face go hot. Mycroft only raised his eyebrows in implication, a sneaky grin stretching across his mouth.

 

“Aren’t you?”

 

“No! God, no… He’s not… _I’m_ not… like, _that_.” John protested, standing up and facing the man, chest to chest.

 

He merely lowered his eyes and shrugged apathetically. “You’re sure?” He pressed, and John set his jaw with nod. “Pity, he seems to really enjoy your company. Would you at all consider keeping in contact, John, letting me know about my brother’s… Exploits? I do worry about him, so.” He tossed back, casual as ever. John only gaped at him.

 

“What? No,” He mumbled, shaking his head in confusion. Man, this bloke really took “over-protective brother” to a new level, asking him to _spy_.

 

“No matter… I have other methods.” He mused, seeming distracted already in his scheming plans. At that moment Sherlock came padding into the room. He immediately glared at his brother, crossing his arms.  
  
"Mycroft, what are you doing here? I thought you were busy with the future and safety of London." Sherlock deadpanned, mocking in his repetition of the last line.   
  
"It is, dear brother, but the safety of London can be in someone else's hands while I go out to dinner with Mum." Mycroft replied smoothly, as though the last five minutes of strangeness with John had not occurred.   
  
Sherlock scoffed and riffled through one of his drawers, "All right, go torture her then. We still have revising to do."   
  
"Right, revising." Mycroft said laughing, but something in his voice made Sherlock turn toward him and narrow his eyes. Mycroft did the same, but remained calm and collected. John had the feeling that these two would continue this all day if he didn't intervene, so he awkwardly cleared his throat.   
  
"Erm, Sherlock, we only have a few more chapters to go until we're done. We should get on that before it gets too late." He tried, placing a hand at the boy’s elbow to pull him away from the “battle.” He immediately lifted his hand when Mycroft grinned at him as though he’d won some sort of argument, and even Sherlock turned to look at him in surprise.

 

"Right" Sherlock responded as he turned away from John’s faint blush, not taking his eyes off his brother until he was out of the room.

 

“Just remember my offer, John… And besides, Sherlock doesn’t _have_ friends. If you’re here, you must be special.” He preened, waltzing out from the room and calling after his mother.

 

Turning to face John Sherlock  said quickly, "Did he say anything to you?"

 

"No, not really. He just asked how the tutoring was going. He was polite. Why?"

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to see if John was lying. "Oh, nothing...he likes to tell stories, make things miserable for me. Always has." Sherlock remarked casually. "That's all. Now, we're almost through Chapter Three."   
  
They grabbed their books and got to work. About two hours later, they were through. "Now, we've gotten up to Chapter five, which is as far as we've done in lesson. You should be alright for the test, and if you keep at it, you may yet pass chemistry, John." Sherlock said cheerfully, tucking his textbooks away and grinning at him over his shoulder.   
  
John saw the time and knew he had to go. Luckily, the rain had stopped. It was nearly quarter to seven. "Thanks, Sherlock, for everything." John said as he stepped out the door. "Tell your mum and Mrs. Hudson they were lovely for taking care of me...with the....clothes, and whatnot. I'll see you Monday!" He called out with a wave, hopping on the bike to pedal home.   
  
Sherlock went back inside, alone in the house until his dad got home later on that evening. He returned to his room and got set on doing a load of his laundry, remembering he had left his wet clothes inside the hamper. He tucked the basket underneath his arm and headed to the laundry room. Going through the clothing, he stumbled upon John's rugby jumper. His eyes widened as he held it in his hands, and he tossed it into the washing, calculating the settings very tediously so as not to ruin it. When the dryer finally dinged, signaling the end of its cycle, Sherlock couldn't help but share a tiny smile with himself over his possession of one charming boy's clothing. Clothing John had shared with _Sherlock_ . And if, when his parents returned home, they found him tucked into his bed wearing the hoodie over his pajama bottoms, well, no one said anything about it.   



	2. Chapter 2

John couldn't decide whether he wanted Monday to come or not. On the one hand, school; on the other Sherlock. After some pondering, John decided that he liked Sherlock, but he wasn't going to dwell on it, and he wasn't going to act on it. He didn't even know if Sherlock was gay, even though John had a sneaking suspicion after his bizarre conversation with Mycroft. He didn't want to make any assumptions. He chose to let Sherlock make the first move if any move was to be made, to save John the embarrassment. On monday morning, John left his house early to retrieve his bike from the bush. He told himself he was riding over to Sherlock's house to be a good friend and save Sherlock the tiresome walk to school, when in reality he just wanted to see the boy. John waited outside of the Holmes's door for a couple of minutes until it opened and out strolled Sherlock, hair mussed and eyes tired. The dark haired boy raised his eyes, and a look of surprise came across his face when he saw John.    
  
"Morning, Holmes!" John laughed.   
  
Sherlock walked over to him skeptically. "What are you doing here?"   
  
"I'm giving you a ride, of course. Hop on." He offered, as though it were obvious, and waved one hand at the bike he was balanced on.

  
Sherlock hesitated, "I  _ am  _  capable of walking, you know." Sherlock didn't miss the disappointment that flashed on John's face for a millisecond.   
  
"Oh, well then we can just walk together. That'll be fun."   
  
Sherlock shook his head and chuckled. He didn't want to let the poor kid down. "It'll take too long to walk all the way there. I'll just ride with you." And he got on, but he couldn't help worrying about what everyone will think, and what him being with John will affect what people thought of John. John didn't deserve scrutiny. But John wasn't even thinking about other people, only about the owner of the arms that were on his shoulders.    
  
While riding, Sherlock noticed that John was wearing a different rugby hoodie, his old one from last year.    
  
"Oh, John, I have your hoodie washed and dried at home, I just forgot to bring it." Sherlock said to the boy in front of him.    
  
"Don't worry about it, bring it whenever. There's no rush."   
  
Sherlock couldn't help but smile, because he wasn't quite ready to let go of that memento.

 

As they made their way down the hill, they sped along at breakneck speed. At one point John ran over a thin branch in the middle of the road, pitching them forward. Sherlock locked his arms around John's neck to keep from flying off.    
  


"Sorry!" He called over his shoulder to the other boy. "You okay?"    
  


"Fine." Sherlock said, keeping his arms wrapped around John because it was "safer". Sure, that sounded believable. "Just fine."    
  


Once they got close to the school, Sherlock asked John to stop. John braked and they sat there, the shorter boy turning around. "What's wrong?"    
  


Sherlock shrugged. "I can walk the rest of the way, John." He offered.    
  


John's face fell. He didn't understand. "Why?"    
  


Sherlock bit of his words harshly, but John could tell it wasn't a personal attack, just general contempt for something too well known to him. "Usually no one wants to be seen with the  _ freak _ , so I figured I'd let you..."    
  


John put an end to that immediately, cutting him off. "No, Sherlock, I told you. I don't care what other people think." He angled the bike so it didn't tip over, as Sherlock had stepped off, and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "We're friends now, right?"    
  


Sherlock opened and closed his mouth in surprise. "Right." He never thought that anyone would want to be  _ his _ friend, let alone the popular rugby star John Watson. He'd never had friends before.    
  


They walked the rest of the way to school, and John chained the bike to a rack in the school's car park. John headed over to his group of mates, and Sherlock told John he needed to go to a class to speak with a teacher.    


 

"Do you wanna eat lunch with us today, Sherlock?" John asked as they parted outside the main lawn.    
  


Sherlock shook his head, biting his lip awkwardly. "Uh, no, sorry...I usually go into the library during lunch. I'm usually too busy to eat. Thanks though."

 

Later that day, John jogged to catch up with Sherlock as he exited chemistry. He gave him a friendly slap on the back and started thanking him profusely. "Thanks so much, Sherlock. I actually think I did well on that test! Lord knows how I would've done without your help."   
  


Sherlock grinned and nodded in acceptance. They continued walking down the hallway.   
  


"Where are you going?" John asked the taller boy.   
  


"The library, remember?'   
  


"Oh, right. Do you want some company?" John had to walk faster to keep up with Sherlock’s long, fast strides. So John jogged a little bit and turned so he was walking backwards in front of Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stopped walking.   
  


"I can't concentrate with other people around. And it won't be any fun for you, I'll only be reading." Sherlock tried to tell him, hoping he could just escape anyone's notice for a few moments.   
  


"Well, I won't be a bother. I should probably study for maths anyway. My friends won't be any help with that." Sherlock stared at John calculatingly.   
  


Finally he sighed, "Fine, but first I need to use the restroom. I'll meet you in the library." John was more than happy to oblige him, just glad the boy wouldn't be alone again.

 

When Sherlock stepped into the library, the cool air and the smell of books washed over him in waves. He sighed, scrubbing at his mouth with a hand. Then he noticed John wave him over. The boy was flipping through the pages of his text idly, one eye fixed on the librarian as he sneaked bites of a sandwich from his bag. Sherlock laughed when he saw that. 

 

"No food allowed in the library, Watson." He chided in a low voice as he sat down.

 

John chewed at him indignantly. "Piss of, Holmes. It's lunch, after all. Aren't you going to eat anything?"

 

Sherlock dropped his gaze and fiddled with the strap of his backpack. "Already did." He said quickly, before turning to the book before him. "We haven't much time, you know." He reminded the boy.

 

"Right. So...Maths." John said wearily, staring at his book with an abysmal gaze of pure glumness. 

 

"Maths." Sherlock repeated. He happened to like Maths, especially algebra and geometry. That dealt with arcs and graphic angles. It was fun to try and imagine the angle at which he held a pose or the exact graph of the curve during a turn. He also liked to try and calculate his velocity sometimes during practice, or do so watching the other dancers during rehearsals. Besides, in Maths you could never be wrong. In his other subjects it was useless facts and interpretations of texts written by people long since dead with no way to confirm these insights into their writing. Pointless, dull. Maths and science always had the same result and an endpoint anyone could reach. Well, anyone who tried, anyhow. Sherlock got to work helping John study, and found the boy to actually be quite proficient in the subject. He was just having trouble with trigonometry because he didn't know the unit circle. 

 

"Look, John. With the angles, 180 degrees is pi. That's this quadrant. The one across is 360, 0 or 2 pi. Above is 90, pi over two, and below is 270, three pi over two. Now, beyond that, in between are other angles in sets of 30 degrees, 60 degrees and 45 degrees. Those are your reference angles. You can tell which angle is the reference by its value in radians, or pi. For example, any angle over 6 uses the reference angle 30. And likewise any angle over 3 uses sixty. And the angles for 30 are 150, 210 and 330. If you drop the zeros and divide by three, that's the number you multiply pi by. So in radians, 150 degrees is 5 pi over 6, and for 60 it's 120, 240 and 300, so in radians 240 degrees would be 4 pi over 3. 45 is a bit harder, but they're somewhat close to this. For instance, 135 is in the second quadrant on a grid, and the reference angle is 45. 13 is closest to 4 times 3, 12, so in radians it would be 3 pi over four." As he spoke, Sherlock was drawing out a graph of the unit circle. "As long as you can work these out quickly, trig is fairly simple." 

 

John scratched at his head with a pencil, pursing his lips as he peering at the drawing. Sherlock tried not to stare, and forced himself to think about the sine, cosine and tangent values of 3 pi over six. "I think...I think I get it." John finally exclaimed, sounding slightly surprised. "Sherlock, it makes sense!" 

 

Sherlock only grinned smugly at him. "I hope when you become a doctor, and graduate med school with honors, you mention the only reason you passed was because Sherlock Holmes taught you the unit circle and basic Chem." He teased. The lunch bell rang shrilly, signaling the end of the period. Sherlock and John collected their things and made their way back to the quad. John rejoined his group of friends, giving Sherlock a parting glance and a tiny wave of his fingers. Sherlock did not return the sentiment, but smiled. 

 

From her position of hanging all over Greg's shoulder, Sally Donovan popped her gum loudly and rolled her eyes, staring over at John. Her many silver rings clinked on her fingers as she narrowed her eyes at him. "Why're you hanging round the freak anyhow, Watson?" She pried, voice judgmental. "He's a loser." 

 

Greg snorted, shoving her off playfully. "Sally, don’t be rude." He chided, but he didn't sound upset. 

 

John hefted his bag higher on his shoulders. "Piss off, Sally. He's nice." He protested, shooting her a glare. 

 

"Yeah, about as nice as a psychopath can be." He heard Anderson mumble from his place at the back of the group, lounging again the benches. John felt his hand clench into a fist, and he moved forward dangerously before somebody grabbed his arm to hold him back. He looked up to see Lestrade, fingers around his elbow, staring at him with wide eyes.

 

Greg looked uncomfortable. "Hey, t'was just a joke, John. No need to get defensive." He shot back. John tossed his head back, eyes wide in disbelief. 

 

"Whatever, Greg, I'll see you at practice." John mumbled, casting his eyes down as he tugged his arm forcefully away and shouldered his bag. 

 

"What's gotten into him?" He heard the boy mutter darkly as he returned to the circle, all eyes on their leader's retreating form. For the first time since primary school, John Watson walked to his next class alone. He, oddly enough, found himself wishing that Sherlock were beside him to make some sort of comment about his rude friends, which would have made him laugh. But the boy was no where in sight, and John was glad Sherlock hadn't been there... Or he really might have hit someone, given the way Sherlock responded to the cruelty of his peers. He knew he pretended to be above it all, but it had to hurt not to have any people who liked you. Except, John liked him, a lot, in fact. That was what he was afraid of.


	3. Chapter 3

After practice was finished, John wiped his sweaty face and tossed his shoes into his bag. He unlocked his bike and though intended to ride home, found the wheels speeding him towards Sherlock's dance studio. It was the only one not in the city, and everyone knew of its location. Still, Sherlock did not expect to be gazing for an object to keep his eyes on while turning and have them land on John Watson's crystal blue gaze. He stumbled over his own feet, falling upon the polished wood floor. 

"Sherlock, what happened?" His instructor cried out over the piano music. "Did you get dizzy because you were not spotting?" Oh, Sherlock felt dizzy alright, but not because he hadn't spotted anything during his turns. 

"I'm fine," he managed, returning to the end of the line. 

"Alright, everyone, let's warm up. Your practice turns went mostly according to plan." She announced, gaze falling onto Sherlock disapprovingly. 

The girls all lined up beside Sherlock, and they stretched, did muscle isolations, flatbacks, which Sherlock hated, and regrouped at the barres. Sherlock had his own barre because he was so tall, and John kept his focus solely on him. The instructor called out for them to to begin with Demi-pliés, rapidly changing positions from first to fifth, with arm movements. Sherlock's were delicate and graceful, but also powerful. John was moved, sitting transfixed on his motions. She switched to grande pliés and continued through the cycle, then to tondues en fois, in all "four corners", and finally across the floors.

Sherlock loved these, because everyone watched as you executed moves alone, and usually he was the top of the class. His teacher put on slightly more upbeat pop music, and they began with batmas. Sherlock's thin limbs stretched high over his head, toe shoes clunking against the floor. After a while they switched to piqué turns and grande jettés. John was amazed by how flexible and talented Sherlock was. Everyone in the class was advanced, but their moves were mostly wooden and without feeling. Sherlock put all of himself into each step, and John was mesmerized until the end of the practice.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked John sternly, coming up to face the boy, arms crossed over his leotard, once all the girls had removed their shoes and bustled into the dressing room. He could see shame and awkwardness pass across the blonde's face. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you didn't like people watching you dance. I was done with practice and figured you'd want a ride home." John told him, wringing his hands together awkwardly. Was Sherlock mad at him?

Sherlock scoffed, tossing his head back and laughing matter-of-factly, "The reason I dance is so people will watch me." He said slowly, narrowing his eyes at John. He was lying, Sherlock could tell. John didn’t only want to give Sherlock a ride home, otherwise he wouldn’t have been so ashamed or embarrassed. John had an ulterior motive, although Sherlock wasn’t totally sure what it was.

John scrunched up his face questioningly, "I thought you danced because you loved it." He replied in disbelief, frowning at him.

"That too, I suppose." Sherlock allowed himself to smile, while John laughed. "It's not that I don't want people watching me, it's just no one’s ever visited during rehearsal. Seeing you kind of took me back a step. I wasn't expecting it." 

"Sherlock Holmes was surprised, wow, a miracle." John shot back with a grin, moving to grab Sherlock’s bag for him after he was done changing back into his streetclothes. 

"Well, you're full of surprises, Watson." Sherlock grabbed his dance bag back, insisting that he could carry it himself, and they headed for the door. "So what did your friends say think they saw you talking to the freak?"

"Nothing, they were cool." Sherlock could tell from the way that John looked away that he was hiding the truth to protect him, but Sherlock didn't press on. He could have handled a few mean words, but it meant a lot to him that John would try to spare him.

Much of the next week happened like that day. John picked Sherlock up in the morning, and then after practice. John would spend lunch with his friends half the week and with Sherlock the other half. Sherlock found that on the days that his friend wasn't with him, he felt a sort of sadness that he hadn't felt in a long time. He knew, though, that someone like John was too good to be true; he could not have the boy to himself all the time as much as he increasingly found himself wanting to rather than retreating into seclusion as he normally did.

One day when John got home from dropping Sherlock off, his parents asked him to invite Sherlock over for dinner. 

"Um, I don't think Sherlock can. He's very busy with classes and projects and such." John answered hesitantly, trying his best to sound convincing. He knew Sherlock would in no way be willing to show up to a family dinner at the Watsons.

"And he doesn't get along with people." Added Harry, to which John kicked her under the table. 

"Well he gets along fine with your brother; he can't be that bad." His mum reasoned, "Tell him I won't take no for an answer. It's the least we can do for all the help he's been giving you, John."

John reluctantly agreed, dreading asking Sherlock. As John had thought, Sherlock didn't take his mom’s proposal too well. John sat with Sherlock in the library the next day at lunch. They whispered back and forth over a pile of books, wary of the disapproving gazes shot at them every so often by the librarian. 

"She wants what?" Sherlock groaned in disbelief, burying his head in his arms. “I can’t… I can’t just show up and have dinner!” The mere thought of someone wanting to be around him seemed to perplex Sherlock.

"She wants you to come over for supper. It's no big deal, though. She does this with a lot of my good friends, and Harry's. It's standard mum-procedure-- nothing to worry about." John acted nonchalant so Sherlock wouldn't get anxious. John knew the boy did, even if he acted like nothing phased him. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and turned his eyes to his book. "It depends on what day. I have dance rehearsal late most days, and I have to study every day so I don't know if I can make it work. I usually just eat while studying.” He offered, even though he knew he wasn’t available on any day.

John reached over the table and grabbed Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock-"

Sherlock stiffened and jerked his head up to meet John's eyes. The boy's gaze bore into John, making him uncomfortable. John looked down, seeming to realize what he had done, and retracted his hand, his face going slightly red. 

"Please, Mate. Honestly, my mum won't let this go until you sit your bottom down and eat her roast beef. Please, just give me a break." John clasped his hands together and tried to look helpless.

Sherlock stared at him, expressionless. After a few seconds he rolled his eyes and looked back at his books, "I suppose one meal won't hurt." He grumbled. 

"Yes!" John jumped up and exclaimed, knocking over some books in the process. He froze, and hastily bent down to pick them back up.

"Shhh!" The librarian glared at John.

"Sorry..." He sat back down. "Thanks so much, Sherlock. You're really saving my arse."

Sherlock ran his eyes over the pages of the book in his hands, clutching it tightly in fear that the hands would tremor. In truth, he wasn't reading at all, his mind running wild at the thought of going to dinner at John's. He said it was a casual occurrence, commonplace among John’s friends, but Sherlock had never heard any of the members of John's posse talking about going to the Watson’s and eating roast beef. He doubted they even knew John’s address, since John wasn't the sort to hold a wild, mid-night kegger. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the thought. John was much too...wholesome. But truthfully, Sherlock was worried. He still didn't know what John saw in him, since most people found him rather odd and disconcerting. He had one friend, John, and the most likely result of the dinner would be his parents hating him and deciding to get John a tutor rather than have their son be influenced by the abnormal Sherlock Holmes. He didn't handle social settings well. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, resolving to try and get John's family to like him. He enjoyed spending time with John, and he didn't want it to end because he'd blown it with the boy's parents. 

Hearing Sherlock’s large exhale, John looked up from his history notes, pen tapping against his teeth. He blew hair out of his eyes, turning towards his friend. 

"You okay?" He asked, sounding concerned. Sherlock nodded quickly, setting his book down. 

"I'm fine. Fine. Just, getting a headache." He lied, standing up to replace his book in the empty slot along the creaky wooden shelf. "Think I'll go to the bathroom, splash some water on my face. See you after practice!" He amended, using the excuse to get a free moment away. 

Reaching the bathroom, he rushed in and locked himself into a dingy grey stall, crouching against the door, back pressed against the graffiti done in fading permanent marker. Sherlock didn't know what was wrong with him. Sure, he got anxious around people, and talking was hard so he'd deduce what he could and use the information to have an advantage, which usually shocked and angered his company. But this was different...usually he tried not to care what people thought; now he was trying to work up the nerve to impress John's family. Sherlock wasn't just doing this to appease John anymore, he wanted them to like him. He enjoyed being around John and wanted to stay around him. John was the most important person he'd ever known. John cared about him, and he wanted to impress his family...because Sherlock had to admit, he cared about John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hated across the floors smh
> 
> also now i've used all my limited knowledge of ballet from when i took dance
> 
> also sorry i never updated i forgot we stopped writing this fic lmao


End file.
